


A Case of Vengeance

by springhorton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:53:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springhorton/pseuds/springhorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John set out to investigate a case that seems highly personal. Someone is trying to get to Sherlock Holmes and may just succeed. As the case and Sherlock's mind begin to spiral out of control, it is up to John to hold things together and find out what's really happening. As the case progresses, Sherlock and John also begin to explore their feelings for one another. Will their relationship bloom and will Sherlock survive the case?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Vengeance

I watched Sherlock from across the room, his thumbs flying over the mobile’s keyboard. There was a sparkle in his eyes that could only mean one thing, something bad had happened. In fact, more than likely someone was dead. I shut my laptop and leaned back in my chair. I’d been writing the blog from our latest case, but it could wait. It wasn’t as if I was going to forget any of the details.

“So, anyone we know?”

“Hmm?” he answered.

I knew he hadn’t really heard me. “Anyone we know dead?”

“No, no one we know. Why would you ask that?”

“It’s a Harry Potter reference, from The Half Blood Prince.”

“Who?”

“You know, Harry…” I could tell from the blank look on his face that he had no idea what I was talking about. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Good, because we have a new case.”

I closed my eyes in silent praise. The last few weeks had been almost unbearable without any mysteries to solve. First, Sherlock had taken to roaming the flat in his pyjamas day and night. And by roaming I mean blowing things up in the kitchen at three in the morning. The he brought home a jar full of maggots, which he picked up I prefer not to wonder where, so he could investigate their growth cycle. Just this morning I found him eating glue to see if he could tell the brands by their taste.

I was pulled from my reverie by the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

“It was a text.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know. The ID was blocked. Exciting isn’t it?”

“What is?”

He impatiently thrust the phone at me, did a bit of a skip and ran to the hall to get his coat.

I looked down at the screen and read the text, If you want to save him, be at the Royal Victoria Dock in 30 minutes. I scrolled down the page and saw a photograph of a person with a hood over their head.

“Come on John!” I heard from the hall.

“But Sherlock, we’ll never make it to the Dock in thirty minutes. We should call Lestrade.”

“It would take Lestrade thirty minutes to get the paper work written up to send someone out. We can handle it better than he can.”

Twenty minutes later Sherlock and I were in the back of a taxi, rushing toward the dock.

“This could be a trap, you know,” I pointed out.

“Of course it could.”

“I think it stinks of Moriarty.”

He squinted at me for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“No.”

He gazed out the window in silent thought.

“You don’t care to elaborate do you?” I asked. “It feels like the same game he played before.”

“Exactly. Moriarty is the kind of man who gets bored much too easily to play the same game twice.”

“Ah,” I simply said. If anyone knew the effects of boredom on the oversized intellect, it was Sherlock.

Well fell into silence again and I glanced at my watch. Five minutes to go. Suddenly a furrow creased Sherlock’s brow. He was leaning forward so I turned my attention ahead. A traffic jam. Actually, it looked like the traffic jam to end all traffic jams.

“Stop!” Sherlock shouted. The cabbie stopped and Sherlock threw open the door.

“Sherlock, we’ll never make it on foot. It’s too far!”

He jumped out anyway, already running up the street.

“God, I hate when he does this.” I tossed a note at the cabbie and hopped out, trying to catch up with Sherlock’s longer, powerful strides.

I saw him turn down an alley. “Sherlock!”

I turned the corner and almost ran into him. I stared at him a moment and then he turned and was off again. It took me a moment to get over the shock that he’d actually waited for me and then I followed him. His speed and stamina were amazing considering the man never eats. I have no idea where his energy reserves come from.

I glanced down at my watch and my chest tightened. “Sherlock!”

“What is it, John?”

“It’s eight thirty-one.”

“What?”

“We’re already a minute late.”

He stopped and looked at me and that’s when a scream punctured the night air. We ran again and when we reached the dock there was a commotion of shouting.

“What are all of these people doing here?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

We headed to the back of the crowd and they seemed to be watching something a few feet away. Sherlock pushed his way through and I followed in his wake. As we reached the front of the crowd I stopped cold.

“My god,” I whispered. At the end of the dock was the body of a naked man stretched out on some kind of apparatus.

“The Vitruvian Man,” Sherlock muttered.

“What?”

“Leonardo Da Vinci. The body’s been manipulated into the most extreme angles of the sketch.”

I shook my head. “We don’t even know if he’s dead!”

“Then we’d better find out.”

With that I hurried to the edge of the dock and Sherlock turned back to the crowd. I heard him say, “Did any of you see anything?”

The man was gagged and didn’t appear to be breathing, but I checked his neck and wrist for a pulse. There was none. I sighed and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Sherlock was beside me.

“I take it he’d dead?”

“Yes. Did you get anything out of them?” I asked, nodding toward the crowd.

“Hardly. They all arrived seconds before we did and this is what they found,” he added with a sweep of his hand over the body.

“What are they doing here?”

“Ah,” he answered with a smile. “They all received texts from different numbers, numbers of people they know, telling them to come here urgently.”

“Apparently they had better taxis than we did.”

“No, they were just texted a few minutes earlier.”

“But why?”

“An audience.”

“To see a dead man?”

“No, to see me fail. Remember, John, the text said that I could save him if I arrived in time.”

“Yes, but we couldn’t have been more than two minutes late. Surely this man was already dead.”

Sherlock studied the apparatus. It looked to me like some kind of mechanical wheel, the two haves moving opposite each other. He bent down to examine underneath.

“It’s remote operated. Whoever texted me simply turned it on from somewhere else at precisely eight thirty.” He stood back up and gave me a hard look. In the distance we heard police sirens.

A few minutes later the police cars had arrived and Lestrade was angrily directing us away from the crime scene.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

“We were invited,” Sherlock quipped.

“Invited?”

“All of these people were,” I added. “We all received texts telling us to come here.”

He glanced back and forth between Sherlock and I, looking bewildered.

Sherlock whipped out his phone and showed Lestrade the text. Lestrade frowned and shook his head.

“Are you saying this man was alive when you got here?”

“No,” I answered. “We missed the deadline.”

“We were two minutes late,” Sherlock added.

Lestrade looked at him in disbelief. “Are you sure this wasn’t a trick, that he wasn’t already dead?”

Sherlock gave him an impatient look and walked back to the body. He pointed to the man’s wrists and ankles. “Bruising from the ropes indicates that this man was not dead when he was tied to the machine.”

“Yes, but he could have already had those bruises.”

“Ah, but they’ve just formed. Do you remember seeing any bruises when we got here John?”

“No.”

“I thought dead bodies didn’t form bruises,” Lestrade pointed out.

“Exactly!” Sherlock shouted. “That means he must have died shortly before we got here. The blood will continue to pool at a bruise, but only for a very short period of time. Besides why would you want to gag a dead man?”

Lestrade frowned. “So what’s with the pose?’

“It’s the Vitruvian Man,” I chimed in. Sherlock gave me a knowing look.

“So why’s he naked?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Have you ever seen the Vitruvian Man?”

Lestrade was silent for a moment and then said, “You couldn’t save him then?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “I wasn’t meant to save him.”

“Then why the messages?’

Sherlock gave him a contemptuous look and walked away. Lestrade looked at me quizzically so I answered.

“Someone wants Sherlock and everyone else to know that he couldn’t save him.”

I started to walk away and Lestrade called out, “You should have called us.”

I turned and said, “Could you have done any better?”

He didn’t have an answer.

That night I was startled awake by a booming sound. I sat up and looked at my clock. It was three am, again. I groaned and crawled out of bed, rubbing my tired eyes. As I walked down the stairs, I heard the rustling of paper and more booms. It had been the sound of books hitting the floor.

When I came into the den, I saw Sherlock, still fully dressed; photos of the Vitruvian Man pinned on the walls, piles of books and papers everywhere as well as schematics for machines similar to the one at the crime scene.

“Don’t tell me you found the make and model in that ten seconds you were peering underneath the thing?”

“Of course I did. The problem is that it appeared to have been customized by whoever bought it.”

He looked tired and, frankly, a little more frantic than usual. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he answered as he paced the floor and waved away some thought that had come into his head. He had one sleeve rolled up and I could make out the nicotine patches on his arm.

“How many of those bloody things are you wearing?”

He looked at the three patches on his arm and then rolled up the other sleeve. There were two more. He looked as if he was about to giggle, but then stopped himself.

“Good lord.” I hurried across the room and pulled them all off. “You do realise there’s such thing as nicotine poisoning?”

He nodded. “This case has me distracted.”

I frowned. I’d never seen him so rattled. “You know this wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t.”

“It was set up so that you would fail.”

“I know that.”

“Good, then go to bed for heaven’s sake.”

With that I climbed back up the stairs and fell into bed.

The next morning I stumbled into the kitchen and found Sherlock at the table, sipping coffee and looking refreshed.

“I hate you,” I mumbled and poured myself a cup.

He smiled at me and then went back to reading a book about Leonardo Da Vinci’s works.

“Have you figured it all out yet?” I asked as I sat down across from him.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem to make any sense. The Vitruvian Man is simply an anatomical sketch, no hidden mystery that I know of. And the machine is a generic pulley system.”

“What about the victim?”

“The police haven’t identified him.”

There was a knock on the door and a distressed Mrs. Hudson rushed in. “Have you seen the paper, Sherlock?”

“They’re rarely worth reading.”

“But it’s about you, dear.” Worry clouded her face as I took the morning addition from her.

One of the headlines read, Police Responsible for Murder at the Docks? As I quickly read down the page, my frown deepened.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Basically the paper is suggesting that the police got that man killed because they’ve been relying on you and that you got him killed because you’re, well, you.”

I looked up to see how he would take it. He was gazing out into the den.

“What absolute rot. Let me see that.”

I handed him the newspaper and watched as he quickly scanned the contents of the article. When he was finished he put the paper down and drummed his fingers on the table.

“We need to see Lestrade.”

After I hastily gulped down some breakfast, we sat out into the damp morning air. Sherlock hailed a taxi and we sat in silence as it took us to Scotland Yard. Right before we arrived, Sherlock’s mobile phone beeped and he took it out to check the message. His brown furrowed.

“What does it say?” When he didn’t answer I added, “Who is it from?’

“The killer.”

He handed me the phone and I read the message, Not quick enough? Too bad. What did you think of my little display?

“He’s taunting you.”

“Yes.”

“But why? You said psychopaths love to get caught. This killer isn’t leaving many clues to follow, doesn’t seem to have any agenda-“

“Yes he does.”

“What?”

“Me. He’s not testing my skills though like Moriarty did.”

“He’s not even giving you a real chance. Sounds more like something personal, like he just wants to see you fail.”

“Yes. That’s why we’re going to see Lestrade. I want to see if he knows anything about this article, and I doubt that he does. I believe the killer arranged that article to further humiliate me.”

As we walked into Lestrade’s office, I could tell that the two of us were the last things he wanted to see. He held up the same newspaper we’d read and shook it.

“Have you seen this?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered flatly.

“I don’t need this right now,” Lestrade sighed.

“Frankly, neither do I,” Sherlock answered, “but there it is.”

“Do you think there’s something I can do about it?”

“No, but I had to be sure you didn’t know where it came from.”

“You think I’d leak something like this?”

“Maybe not, but someone in your department might. I’m not exactly popular amongst your officers.”

Lestrade slammed down the paper and stepped toward Sherlock. “Have you ever wondered why that is?”

Until then, I’d been watching the heated exchange from the sideline, but I chose that moment to step between the two men.

“Inspector, Sherlock. This isn’t going to help matters.”

Lestrade stepped back an inch. “I should ban you from this case.”

“Ban me?” Sherlock said in disbelief. “This case is all about me. Besides, you need my help.”

“And that’s why I’m going to let you work on it, but you do nothing without checking with me first.”

Sherlock screwed up his features and started to protest, but Lestrade held up a hand.

“Nothing,” he repeated.

“Fine.”

We walked out of the building a few minutes later, Sherlock striding like a raging bull.

“Why did we come here?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“If you already knew that the police had nothing to do with the article then what are we doing here?”

He gave me a dismissive look and turned to hail a taxi.

“You came to pick a fight, didn’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not, but it seems you are.”

He started to say something, but only frowned and turned back around. A taxi stopped, but he kept on walking.

“The taxi, Sherlock.”

“Go ahead,” he called back. “I think I’ll walk for awhile.”

“Damn it.” I sighed and told the cabbie to take me to Baker Street.

Eight hours later I was sitting in the den, pouring over everything we knew about the murder. I had looked at all of Sherlock’s notes a dozen times and I had texted him just as many. The only conclusion I’d come to was that the Vitruvian Man could have been a coincidence. Maybe the killer had just wanted to stretch the man to death.

I reached for the phone to dial Sherlock’s number again when I heard the front door open and feet bounding up the steps. Sherlock breezed in with a sly look on his face.

“Where have you been?” I demanded before he could say anything.

“I told you I was going to walk for awhile.”

“That was eight hours ago!”

“Was it really? Well, I had quite a lot of thinking to do.” His blue eyes sparkled with the anticipation of an audience.

I wasn’t giving it to him. “I’ve texted you a dozen times. You were too busy thinking to answer?”

He looked a bit crestfallen and gathered his thoughts impatiently. “Listen, that doesn’t matter now because I’ve-“

“Oh, it doesn’t matter that I had no idea if you were alright? It doesn’t matter that you can’t even show me enough respect-“

“John.”

“What!”

We stared at one another for a moment and then Sherlock frowned.

“John, you know I respect you. If there’s one person’s opinion on this planet that I do respect, it’s yours.”

I took a deep breath. “My opinion, yes, but what about me?”

He looked at me for a moment and then sank down on the sofa. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to-“

“I know.” I paused a moment and then added, “What is it you were so excited about?”

His eyes lit up and a smile came to his face. “I realised that the Vitruvian Man-“

“Was a coincidence, yeah I know.”

This time he looked really crestfallen. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve been cooped up in here with your paperwork for eight hours. I figured that the body just happened to look like the Vitruvian Man and we made the mistake of latching on to that idea.”

“Well, yes, I mean no, not exactly. The Vitruvian Man was a distraction. It doesn’t mean anything. The killer just wanted us to think it did.”

“Why?”

“To distract us from what’s really going on.”

“Which is?”

“Well, I haven’t figured that out completely.”

I smiled and nodded. “So that’s all you managed to figure out in eight hours?”

“Not exactly. Come with me.”

I grabbed my coat and followed him down the stairs. Then we headed back to the docks.

“Did we miss something last night?” I said as we stood by the waterfront.

“Yes.” He lead me to a storage area overlooking the dock where the body was found. It was strewn with barrels and rotting wooden pallets. “Look,” he said, pointing to one of the piles of pallets.

I squatted down in front of the pile. “Is that-“

“Tape residue, yes.”

“From what though?”

“A camera was taped to the wood.”

“For the article?”

Sherlock nodded. “If you look out at the dock from here, the angles are precisely the same as the photographs in the article.”

“Once again, remote operated.”

“Exactly.”

It was just starting to get dark as I stood back up. Sherlock was gazing off into the distance, when his phone gave a beep. He quickly scanned the message, surprise registering on his face. He tossed me the mobile and sprinted away.

I read the message, Trafalgar Square, 10 minutes. There was another picture of a hooded figure.

“Trafalgar Square!” I shouted. “At this time of day? We couldn’t make it in an hour.”

“The killer expected me to be at Baker Street,” he shouted back. “Phone Lestrade!”

I quickly dialed Inspector Lestrade’s number and took off after Sherlock.

By the time we arrived at Trafalgar Square, the police were already there and had taped off the crime scene. We knew we would be too late, but it looked like they had been too. Sherlock and I ran up to the statue of George IV. It was dark now and a light rain was drizzling down. We stopped at the police tape and looked up at the statue. There was another naked man, this time hanging by his neck from George’s horse.

I shook my head, but Sherlock stared at him, taking in every detail. That’s when I noticed that the entire police force seemed to be staring at us. Sherlock started to lift the tape, but we heard Lestrade shout behind us.

“No!”

We turned to see him storming up the steps.

“Don’t go over there,” he added.

“I need to examine the scene,” Sherlock protested.

I glanced back and noticed a growing hostility from the officers and forensic teams.

“No,” Lestrade repeated.

“How am I supposed to gather clues-“

“You don’t seem to understand me. You’re no longer working this case.”

“What?”

“If this maniac is killing people to get to you, maybe he’ll stop if you’re no longer involved.”

“That’s absurd.”

A woman’s voice rings out in the crowd of police officers. “Go home freak, before you get someone else killed.”

“Donovan!” Lestrade reprimanded impatiently. He locked eyes with Sherlock and calmly said, “Go home.”

Sherlock glared at him for a moment while I looked around at the rest of the angry faces.

“Come on,” I said and tugged at his coat. He turned up his collar and stepped away without another word.

The next three days were worse than the weeks without a case had been. Sherlock pored over and over every detail we had. Unfortunately that was only what we knew about the first murder, which we had already been over so many times before. He refused to eat or sleep, only nibbling here and there when he was on the verge of passing out. Between bouts of shouting about the case, Lestrade, me or anything else that came to mind, he would pace. He paced incessantly, sometimes for hours on end.

I have to confess that my patience was tried and my nerves shot. One afternoon I was fixing lunch and I knew he hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before.

“I’m going to fix you something too. You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he answered.

“You must be, you haven’t eaten in-“

He slammed his fist down on the table. “I said I’m not hungry.”

I threw the ingredients back into the fridge and slammed the door. “Fine. I’m not hungry either.”

Then I bounded down the steps and out the front door, unable to get away from him quickly enough. I walked for awhile and then decided some fresh air would do me good. I hopped on a bus for Hampstead and roamed the Heath for awhile. It was too chilly for a swim so I just walked around the ponds and sat on the grass under a tree.

After a couple of hours I shook my head, realising that Sherlock was only acting the way he was because he was doubting himself. And that was a very strange feeling for him. I made my way back to Baker Street, feeling a little more optimistic. As I climbed the steps to the flat all was quiet, but I doubted he had gone out. I walked in the door ready to smooth things over.

“Sherlock, I-“ My voice caught in my throat and all I could manage was a strangled, “Oh god.”

I caught a glimpse of Sherlock. He was sitting at his desk, the chair facing the door. I noticed a slip of folded paper at his feet. But mostly, I noticed the rubber tourniquet around his arm and the needle stuck in his vein. I couldn’t tell what was in it, but I knew that, whatever it was, it was too much.

He looked up at me, his eyes full of fear and then he pushed the plunger in.

Time seemed to slow and I heard myself yelling, “Sherlock! No!” Then I ran to him and pulled the needle out as the tourniquet sank to the floor. I almost slipped on the piece of paper on the floor so I picked it up and opened it.

It said, Inject yourself or John Watson dies.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

For a moment Sherlock just looked at me and then his eyes rolled back and his head slumped to the side. I caught him before he could fall out of the chair. I tried to pick him up and drag him to the sofa, but only succeeded in knocking us both to the floor. I cradled his trembling body on top of mine and banged my foot as hard as I could on the floor.

“Mrs. Hudson!” I yelled at the top of my voice. “Mrs. Hudson!”

Sherlock’s hair was already soaking wet and he was letting out gargling moans.

“Mrs. Hudson!” I heard her coming up the stairs, muttering something about not being our housekeeper.

“John Watson,” she said reprovingly as she walked in. She didn’t get any further. “What in the world happened?”

“He drugged himself. He was being threatened.”

She was staring in horror, not at Sherlock and me on the floor, but at his computer on the desk. I looked over at it and saw pictures of myself with red Xs through them. They were pictures from earlier at the Heath.

“What’s going on, John?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll call the police.”

“No,” Sherlock choked out. He’d regained consciousness and was shaking his head.

“But, Sherlock-“

“No!”

His body started to shake more and more violently.

“Help me hold him,” I said to her.

She knelt down on the floor and took his hands while I held his head back against my shoulder and put my other arm around his chest. I didn’t know why he didn’t want to go to hospital, but I knew he needed to.

“What if it’s poison?” Mrs. Hudson pleaded.

“No,” I assured her. “He would have been dead by now. It’s some kind of drug.”

“So, he’s overdosing then?”

“Yes.”

We sat there for what seemed like days while Sherlock shook and thrashed and shouted. Both he and I were soaked through and when he’d calmed a little, Mrs. Hudson brought a tub of water and wash cloths. She wetted them and we tried to cool his raging system.

A few hours later Sherlock was reduced to trembling and moaning in his sleep.

“Can you help me get him to the sofa?” I asked Mrs. Hudson.

She nodded and held him up while I crawled out from under him. I stretched my sore, sweat drenched muscles and then took hold of Sherlock’s arms and pulled him up. With Mrs. Hudson under one side and me under the other, we got Sherlock to the sofa and laid him down.

“Why would someone do this?” she asked.

“I don’t think he expected me to be back. And I don’t think he counted on Sherlock’s resistance to the drug.”

“You mean Sherlock was supposed to die?”

“Yes. I think that was the killer’s plan all along, to humiliate Sherlock and then kill him.”

Mrs. Hudson looked horrified. I finally convinced her to go to bed and then I carefully collected the note and syringe to be analysed by the police. I put them on the kitchen table in plastic bags and suddenly realised how exhausted I was. I didn’t even make it to my bed. A few hours later I woke up, lying on the floor next to the sofa. The thing that had woke me was Sherlock writhing and shouting. I quickly sat up to see if he was alright and realised that he was dreaming. I shook him a little.

“Sherlock, wake up.” It did no good so I shook him harder.

He awoke with a shout and flailed about.

“Sherlock! It’s alright, it’s just the drug!” I took his face in my hands and turned it toward me. “It’s probably giving you vivid nightmares,” I added. “But it was just a dream.”

His breathing was shallow and fast, but he finally realised that he was awake and going to be alright.

He stared at me, wild-eyed for a moment. I smiled, trying to let him see that everything was alright. Then, suddenly, he leaned forward and kissed me. I was so shocked that it didn’t register at first, but then I pushed him away, breathing hard.

“Why did you do that?”

He lay back, looking confused himself. He only looked at me, blinking back tears.

I shook my head. “Don’t.”

He put his head back and stared up at the ceiling, no longer able to hold the tears in.

I closed my eyes. “What the hell,” I mumbled. It’s not like I hadn’t seen this coming. I opened my eyes, leaned over and kissed him back. His hand went around my neck, grabbed my hair and pulled me closer. I lost all track of how long we kissed. All I knew was that we needed each other and had for a long time.

Eventually, I stood back up and started to undress. Sherlock watched with a smile on his face, like I was some kind of particularly fascinating crime scene. He didn’t take any clothes off though. When I was done I stood there, naked and ready for inspection. Still, he just smiled at looked me over. So, I sat back down on the edge of the couch, shoved his shirt up and planted wet kisses on his stomach.

This was a much unanticipated bonus. It turns out that he was ticklish. This I was prepared to never let him live down. By the time he got me to stop, he had almost fallen off the couch and kicked me in the head twice. I dried my eyes from laughing and squeezed behind him on the sofa. He let me pull off his shirt and I found myself mesmerized by his back. I ran my fingers and tongue all around it, covering every freckle and mole.

Sherlock put his head back and closed his eyes, looking very much like a man having a spiritual experience. I smiled at myself, happy that it was me causing this emotional state. I gently slid down his pants, revealing small, but round and firm cheeks. I shook my head and smiled again. I’d always been a bit of an arse man and couldn’t believe I’d never noticed his. We were both very ready by then and when I reached around and took him in my hand he let out a loud gasp. I planted more kisses on his back as his gasps turned to moans.

Finally I pushed deep inside him, sending an explosion of feeling through both of us. He threw his head back and let out a cry. I ran my fingers through his hair while he called out my name.

If it had ever crossed your mind that Sherlock Holmes was something other than human, I have to admit that it crossed mine that night too. The man was completely insatiable. While I lay there heaving my breath onto his neck, he waited patiently. Finally he flipped over onto his back while I finished him off by hand. I didn’t really mind as I got to watch the relish on his face, but by the time I was done, I was exhausted and collapsed on top of him. He just laughed and stroked my arm.

We fell asleep like that, but it wasn’t long before his soft soba woke me up. I looked up at him and mumbled, “What is it?”

“Thank you, John.”

“For what?”

“For this…for saving my life.”

“Well, I didn’t really save your life.”

“We both know that I could have died if I’d been alone.”

I nodded. “Yes, that’s true.”

“Thank you for understanding,” he went on, “for your patience and for not…”

“For not thinking you’re a freak?”

He choked up and could only nod.

“You’re brilliant, Sherlock. What you do is almost magical. Your people skills might be a little lacking, but I know that part of it is just a mask, a way to keep people from getting too close.”

He looked at me like I had just discovered the biggest secret in the world. I laughed. He looked away as if embarrassed.

“I didn’t think that anyone would ever want me, not once they knew me…and I don’t mean just like this, I mean…”

“I know what you mean.” I smiled. “Why Sherlock, I didn’t think you cared.”

He smiled back. “Well normally I wouldn’t.” Then he frowned, serious again. “Before you I didn’t.”

“Ah, so I’ve confounded you then?”

He fixed me with a hard look, but then conceded, “Yes, apparently you have.”

The next morning I awoke to find Sherlock up and dressed, looking very much like absolutely nothing had happened the day before. He had his hands clasped under his chin and was staring at me from his seat on the coffee table. I groaned and stretched.

“Good morning,” I mumbled.

He smiled. “I know who the killer is.”

“Of course you do,” I said, suddenly fully awake. “Who?”

He hopped up and went to his desk. I stood and pulled on my clothes from the day before. Then I went over to the desk and looked over his shoulder.

“I decided to trace the IP address from the e-mail I received,” he quickly outlined. “It led back to a library in Hampstead, seemingly unhelpful. But the library has an online log in system.”  
“You did all of this, this morning?” I butted in.

He just looked at me like that was a silly question and went back to the laptop.

“So, I checked on the log ins for the time the e-mail was sent and I found this.”

He pointed at the screen and I leaned over and read the name, “LeDonna Darovici.” I shook my head.

“It’s an anagram,” he pointed out.

My eyes widened. “Leonardo Da Vinci?”

“Exactly. It turns out that the Vitruvian Man wasn’t a distraction, but a signature.”

“But how does that tell us who the killer is?”

He smiled and hopped up again, picking up a file from the table. He handed me a photograph from the file. It was a hanging man.

“It turns out that the hanging in Trafalgar Square was part of the signature as well. Which we might have known about sooner, I might add, if we’d been allowed to investigate.”

“So this photo is related?”

“Yes. Three years ago I helped the police solve a case of a serial killer whose chosen method of murder was hanging.”

“Really?”

“Yes, the killer’s name was Leonard Martin.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “No? Leonard?”

“Yes.”

“But surely he’s still in prison?”

“True, but he did have a brother who created quire a scene in court, swearing to avenge Leonard.”

I laughed and shook my head. “This is amazing.”

“Not really. I should have figured it out much sooner. If I hadn’t been-“

“Sherlock, how did he get into our flat?”

“Ah, well, after awhile I went out to see if I could find you. Apparently you had already gone to Hampstead. When I got back, the syringe, note and e-mail were waiting for me.”

“Oh.”

He brushed it off and hurried for the door, pulling on his scarf and gloves. “We have to talk to Lestrade.” He turned to see me still standing at the table.

“Uh, Sherlock, I could really use some more sleep.”

“Oh,” he answered like he’d never heard of such a thing. “Well, I thought it would be-“

“Exciting?” I ventured.

“Something like that, solving the crime when we were told not to.”

I smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve had enough excitement for a day or two.”

“Ah, alright then.” He turned to leave, but then stopped. He stood there for a moment and then turned back around. He looked at me and then quickly crossed the den and kissed me.

“I’ll be back in a while,” he said.

And then he was gone, leaving me to stare, dumbstruck, as he walked away.


End file.
